Voices - Vornholt John (читать хорошую книгу .TXT) 📗

“Not true,” said Garibaldi. “I’m bringing back a fugitive who escaped from Babylon 5. I can do that all day long. Put this shuttle down! I’m getting off.”

“Me too,” said Gray, jutting his chin.

“All right,” snapped Bester. “Put them down.”

“Is Miami okay?” asked the pilot. “That’s the closest big city without backtracking.”

“Fine,” responded both Garibaldi and Gray. The security chief gave his partner a nod and glanced out the cockpit window. He saw that they were in space, in reentry, and half the globe was shimmering in the sunlight of a new day.

“One more thing,” said Bester through clenched teeth.

“Yeah?”

“Stay away from Mars.”

Garibaldi chuckled and looked at the Psi Cop. “You’re talking about my old stomping grounds. Is that where Malten really is? On Mars. Why don’t you get him?”

“We know he’s on Mars, but we don’t know where. If you find out where he is, call us. Let us handle him.”

“Sure,” said Garibaldi, “and if you find Talia, call me. Let me handle her.”

They felt the thrusters of the shuttlecraft kick on, and the noise level increased. They strapped themselves into seats and braced for the descent into Miami.

Talia lay in the swaybacked bed, just watching the sun stream through the dirty lace curtains of the old hotel. It was not the kind of place she would have stayed a week earlier, but it felt so warm and friendly that she never wanted to leave. She knew she had to get up, keep moving, but her body told her to rest. It creaked with protest when she forced it out of the bed.

She strolled past the viewer and wondered if she should put the news on. She couldn’t bear to see herself in that wig again, either in a computer mock-up or in real life, so she had decided to trim her regular hair a bit and stuff it all into the beret. Even though she dreaded seeing her face on the screen again, she couldn’t resist the masochistic impulse to turn on the viewer. She dialed the news, hoping against hope that something good might have happened while she slept.

Thankfully, she caught the tail end of the report on her, which summed up that she was still at large. This came as some relief, she thought ruefully, just in case the hotel room was really an ingenious prison. At large, thought Talia. What a strange phrase—it sounded as if she were everywhere and nowhere at once, which was sort of true.

She was about to turn the viewer off when she heard the announcer mention a name, Emily Crane. Talia jumped back as if she had been shocked, and she stared at the image on the screen. It was Emily Crane, the one who had turned her into a hunted fugitive. Only she was dead, and her PR photo was replaced by a more grisly shot of a limp body on a sidewalk. Talia concentrated on the announcer’s words:

“There are no suspects, and police are asking that anyone with information on the murder of Emily Crane, Michael Graham, and Barry Strump please come forward. Once again, three commercial telepaths from the Mix were brutally murdered about five o’clock this morning. There was no apparent robbery or motive. In sports, we have a new champion in field hockey …”

Talia punched it off and slumped back into the bed. Now, what the hell was she going to do? The one person who might be able to clear her was dead! She felt like curling up in the droopy bed and just staying there until her money ran out, or the Psi Cops found her, whichever came first.

After a moment, Talia sat up and wiped her eyes. She stared at the morning light as it streamed through the window, knowing what she had to do. She had to run for real. No more running to somewhere, just running away from everything. The one person who might have cleared her was dead, and she would never get a break.

Where could she go? In all the exotic places she thought about, such as Minbar, she would stick out and be easily recognizable. Earth was just too risky, and she couldn’t get near where she really wanted to go—her childhood haunts. She needed someplace that was chaotic, with a thriving underground, because she was firmly a part of that social strata now. She could think of only one such place.

Mars.

Uncle Ted had been part of her undoing, so maybe he could help her now. Plus, Mars would be cheap to get to. She hurriedly put on her clothes and stuffed her hair under her beret. A glance in the mirror warned her that she looked too much like herself, and she resolved to do something about that later. First, she had to figure out a way to let Uncle Ted know she was coming.

She ran her chit through the viewer slot and punched in her mother’s address. Then she entered her E-mail: “Hobo, Uhkhead.”

It might be a message Ambassador Kosh would appreciate, she thought with a grim smile. Talia was sure her mother would get it, because “Hobo, Uhkhead” was her baby-talk way of saying “Hello, Uncle Ted.” She had seen herself say it often enough in old home visuals. She wanted to say a lot more to her mother—like “Mom, I’m innocent!”—but that would have given away the sender. She hoped the cryptic message would look like garbled junk to whoever was reading her mom’s mail.

Before she left the hotel, Talia took the card with Emily Crane’s address on it and ripped it up.

“Now boarding shuttle 1312 for Clarke Spaceport,” announced the computer. Gray and Garibaldi were already in line for the trip to the orbital spacedock, from where they would grab a flight to Mars.

Garibaldi glanced around the Miami Interstellar Port, marveling at the odd choice of colors. He had never seen a transportation center painted all in turquoise before. Ah, well, maybe they had gotten a deal on the paint. At any rate, the pastel color softened the hard look of many of the passengers in line with them.

He turned to Gray and said, “You know, you don’t really have to come with me. You could just wipe your hands of this and go enjoy your place in Berlin for a few days.”

“No,” said the telepath, “we’re a team. I was glad to have been of assistance this morning, when you needed it.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell Bester,” remarked Garibaldi, lowering his voice. “Emily Crane said that the plan would be put into effect within twenty-four hours. So if Bester doesn’t find Malten by tonight, by tomorrow Malten may be his boss.”

They shuffled ahead a few more steps in the line, and Gray replied, “That would be fittingly ironic, but I think Mr. Bester will be at the Senate today, twisting arms. His problem is how to bring down Malten without bringing down the entire Mix.”

The two men strolled down the rampway and onto the shuttlecraft. It was a medium-sized craft and seated about forty people. Gray stopped midway down the aisle and pointed at two empty seats, then he remembered and shook his head.

“The rear, right?”

Garibaldi nodded, and they found seats once again in the next-to-last row. “You can see everybody from the back,” he remarked.

“What makes you think that Ms. Winters will go to Mars?” asked Gray.

The chief shrugged and looked out the port window. “I don’t know. It’s close by, and that’s where I would go if I were running. She needs to find an underground organization to hide her, and there are plenty of them on Mars. It’s a good haystack, if you’re a needle.”

“She might be very useful to the Martian separatists,” said Gray. “She’s a telepath with a full knowledge of Psi Corps, plus she has her experience with aliens. I often wonder, what would we do if the Mars separatists allied themselves with an alien power?”

“Let’s not think about it, okay?” asked Garibaldi. “Mars is a mess. We ignored it for too long, and now we don’t know what to do with it. You wonder why the hell the alliance tries so hard to hang on to it.”

“Yes, don’t you,” Gray remarked dryly.

In the gift store at Sky Harbor Travel Center, Talia bought an expensive print scarf, which she tied around her beret. Now it looked less as if she were tying to hide her hair color, she hoped. She bought some sunglasses, which were tinted lightly enough to wear indoors, and she glanced in the mirror at Frieda Nelson, the eccentric artist from Oregon. The real Frieda was probably a straight-laced professional, and she hoped that she wasn’t destroying the woman’s reputation.

“Announcing the departure of shuttle 512 to the Clarke Spaceport,” droned the computer voice.

She glanced at her ticket—yes, that was her. She was booked all the way to Central Mars, and she wondered how often she would have to show her identicard. There would probably be a check-in when she reached the Clarke Spaceport, because space stations wanted to make sure that people were coming and going, not sticking around. Then she would have to show the card again when she disembarked at Mars. That would make four uses, right at the limit.

Talia tightened the scarf under her neck and headed for her gate. She walked briskly, to make it look as if she were a busy person, not a fugitive skulking about. She had become a bit more optimistic as she realized that there were other people who could clear her name. Deuce, for one; and surely Emily Crane had other accomplices. Some of them might be on Mars, and the would keep her eyes and ears open.

She darted importantly between two police officers, daring them to look at her. They did, but despite her thumping heart, they didn’t rush after her. If she could make this last jump to Mars, and not get nabbed, maybe she could catch her breath. Unfortunately, she had begun to figure out who had killed Emily Crane. That was one way the Psi Cops handled rogues—to slaughter them in the street. Talia shuddered, but she shook off the panic attack and marched down the ramp to her shuttlecraft.